Enclosed
by Yvi
Summary: After Javert breaks up the robbery in the Gorbeau tenement, Azelma has a few facts reestablished.


They question us at the police station, same as always, and Eponine and I don't give them a damn thing but shrugs and stony faces. There's one really frightening officer who scares ten years off my life, but I'm not about to be a nark. As we're let out, before they take us to the prison, I figure I might as well make the most of things and try a trick I've heard about—so I say I lost my shawl on the way in and would like to check for it, in case it got swept up by mistake. The officer taking us out must be a new one, since he agrees. Eponine's impressed at my boldness; she winks at me as another policeman waits with her in the corridor. 

The officer walks me downstairs and stands stiffly outside the door as I talk to the woman inside. I saw her wandering around with a mop when Eponine and I came in, and I haven't a clue what she's doing here so late at night, but thank God she is. It's a tiny room, filled mostly by a rack that holds a few uniforms, and there's nothing worth lifting save the contents of a basket sitting in one corner. It's filled with what must be castoffs picked up or lost by the people the police drag in and out of this place. I try to get a good look at just what's inside; probably I won't gain anything here unless I slip it out myself. 

Strange enough, my luck is surprisingly good. The woman—keeper, cleaner, whatever she's called—damn near jumps on me, and not in the way I expected. She seems delighted when I ask after my nonexistent shawl. It isn't in the basket when she checks, of course, but she insists on finding something else for me. 

So I do what anyone in my place would do: I squint and blink like a daft thing for near a full minute, trying to figure what's going on. It makes no sense. The woman cleans the police station for a living, for God's sake. I don't understand it, and I think she might not be quite right in the head, but I'm not about to ignore her offers.

I'm still standing there blinking when she gives me a bar of soap and points to a bucket, urging me to wash while she finds something to fit me. I still have no idea what she's about, but I wet my face and hands anyway. The soap is tough and jagged, yet still softer than anything used in years. It's been too cold lately to bathe in the river, so the dirt is thick on my skin. I scrub it off as best I can before turning around and taking the dress she hands me. Quickly, I change into it, half-expecting she'll change her mind and snatch it back. When I'm finished, she laughs and stares in awe as she buttons the cuffs. By the looks of them, they're supposed to fit closely at the wrists. Instead, they hang loosely, even though she buttons them as tight as she can.

"But you're tiny!" she exclaims in a tone of voice I've heard fine ladies use with their pampered lapdogs. "I can see practically every bone in your hand. It's like dressing a doll, you're so little."

Yes, I want to reply, it's damned adorable that I live on whatever scraps I can get. So fucking darling that I run myself raw doing errands and trying to keep from being pinched. I'm smaller than I should be, that's all, and I don't in the least resemble a doll. 

I don't say this, of course; she's just given me a dress, though I still can't fathom what's in it for her, and I'm not about to snap at her now. 

But don't I look ridiculous in the thing she's put me in? It's white, for one thing, meaning it won't last for more than a week before getting as dirty as a dishrag. It's also too large, and not just in the wrists. She offers to take my old clothes, but I ask her not to; it's obvious I'll need them again soon. 

"Thank you, madame," I tell her in my most angelic voice. 

She smiles rapturously at having been able to help such a sweet child. Apparently she's forgotten, if she ever knew, that I'll be spending the next two weeks in a cell. No doubt she's sure I'll be set on an entirely new path once I'm out, though. I'll go right on and find a job in the good shop around the corner, where I'll work hard and make an honest living and the owner and his family will take me in as one of their own. Let me stay in the spare bedroom and keep me off the streets or some such thing... No one who's never actually been on the streets ever understands it isn't that easy. 

But I don't say any of this either, and instead I give her something I hope approximates a smile. When I go back out, the officer looks at me suspiciously, but I just lift my chin and don't say a word. Eponine gives me the same look as we're taken to the prison. We don't speak on the way over—we know better than that—but I can tell she's ready to explode.

And then I get lucky again. We're put in one of the smaller cells, where it's only us in there. I'm more relieved by that than I can say. Last time, we were in the other area, the big one, crammed in with dozens of other girls. Eponine dealt with it just fine. By the end of the first day, she'd given the ringleader a nosebleed and had other girls splitting their meals with her. I've never been good at making myself known like that. The only reason I made it out unscathed was because Eponine made it clear no one was to touch her sister. She teased me afterward for being scared, but that wasn't it. She doesn't know it, but it takes a lot to scare me. It was overwhelming, just—so many people in one place and not having anywhere to run if I needed to. It's better when there are less people, I think. Less things to look out for. Besides, one of them would have stolen the dress, I'm sure of it.

I stop thinking about that once we're locked in and look at Eponine expectantly. Sure enough, as soon as the guard's footsteps fade, the tirade begins.

"Why in hell would you do that?" she demands, seizing one of the limp ruffles at my collar. "It's a good trick to play—easy, too, even for someone as thick as you—but only if you know when to use it." She releases me in disgust. "We're in here a good two weeks, idiot, you'll just ruin it before we're out again. What good does that do? Christ, 'Zelma, use your head the next time you try anything." 

But I have a good response this time. "I did think," I snap, showing her the rags I've kept. "I'll wear these in here and change once we're out." 

"If you were going to take anything," she grumbles, "it should've been a cloak or a man's jacket. Something sensible. A light dress doesn't do much good in the winter."

"It's more than what you've got, isn't it?" I retort.

She swings a hand at me as if I'm an annoying insect. Instinctively, I leap back, slamming into the bars of our cell. 

"Be careful," she laughs spitefully. "Don't hurt yourself too badly or we'll have to cut your arm off." 

Recalling that bit of stupidity makes me grit my teeth, but I can't say anything, though a there's a tight ball of anger in the pit of my stomach, growling along with the hunger. I sink down in a corner, thinking of how I'd love to spit on her, or better, slap her. But we're in a cell now and there's no way for me to avoid her reaction, so instead I force myself to simply ignore her. I do a good job of it for a second or two while she keeps at it, but then I catch a few words:

"…so damn stupid to take a dress…probably think it makes you a lady…"

And that makes me think of the doll-like girl who gave us the stockings earlier on. And I don't know why, but I can't help it, and I start to shake. 

Eponine sees, even though I do my best to hide it by burying my face in my arms, and sneers. "God, you're like a human rabbit. Babet could make a fortune showing you off at a fair." 

It goes on like this for most of the two weeks, until we're too disgusted with each other to speak anymore. Every now and then, because she can only go so long without doing it, Eponine will make some sort of jab at me, but I don't listen to her, or I try not to. I let my mind wander; usually, I find myself thinking of the day we got nabbed in the alley, of the man and the girl... I remember the girl especially, and the way she looked when she urged me to see a doctor about my hand. Evidently she didn't know how hard that'd be. No doctor would care to see the likes of me, and even if one did, there'd be no way to pay for any services he could provide. Besides, by the time I'm out of prison, I've mostly healed. And I've still got the dress, for whatever that's worth.


End file.
